The Guitar Solo
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Transcript of The Guitar Solo
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The Guitar SoloA Malian Folk Tale
Illustrated by Rebecca McConnell
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The Guitar SoloA Malian Folk Tale Illustrated by Rebecca McConnell
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In a place where six rivers join like the strings of a guitar, lived
Zin the Nasty, Zin the Mean, Zin-Kibaru, the water spirit.
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Even above the noise of the rushing water rose the sound of his magic guitar, and
whenever he played it, the creatures of the river fell under his power. He
summoned them to dance for him and to fetch him food and drink. In the
daytime, the countryside rocked to the sound of Zin’s partying.
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But come nighttime, there was worse in store for Zin’s
neighbor, Faran. At night, Zin played his guitar in
Faran’s field, hidden by darkness and the tall plants. Faran
was not rich. In all the world he only had a field, a fishing
rod, a canoe, and his mother. So when Zin began to play,
Faran clapped his hands to his head and groaned,
“Oh no! Not again!”
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Out of the rivers came a million mesmerized fish, slithering up the bank, walking
on their tails, glimmering silver. They trampled Faran’s green shoots, gobbled his
tall leaves, picked his ripe crop to carry home for Zin-Kibaru.
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Like a flock of crows they stripped his field, and no amount of
shooing would drive them away. Not while Zin played his spiteful,
magic guitar.
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“We shall starve!” complained Faran to his mother.
“Well, boy,” she said, “there’s a saying I seem to recall:
When the fish eat your food, it’s time to eat the fish.”
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So Faran took his rod and his canoe and went fishing. All day he fished, but
Zin’s magic simply kept the fish away, and Faran caught nothing.
All night he fished, too, and never a bite: the fish were too busy gathering
the maize in his field.
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“Nothing, nothing, nothing,” said Faran in
disgust, as he arrived home with his rod over
the shoulder. “Nothing?” said his mother seeing
the bulging fishing basket.“Well, nothing but
two hippopotami,” said Faran, “and we can’t eat
them, so I’d better let them go.”
The hippopotami got out of Faran’s basket and
trotted away.
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Now Zin was an ugly brute and got most of his fun from
tormenting Faran and the fish. But he also loved to wrestle.
“I’ll fight you, boy,” he said, “and if you win, you get my
guitar. But if I win, I get your canoe. Agreed?”
“If I don’t stop your magic, I shan’t need no canoe,”
said Faran, “because “I’ll be starved right down to a skel-
eton, me and Mama both.”
And Faran went to where the rivers meet and grabbed Zin-Kibaru by
the shirt. “I’ll fight you for that guitar of yours!”
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So, that was one night
the magic guitar did not play in
Faran’s field—because Faran and Zin were
wrestling. All the animals watched. At first they cheered
Zin: he had told them to. But soon they fell silent, a
circle of glittering eyes. All night Faran fought, because so
much depended on it.
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“Can’t lose my canoe!”
he thought, each time he grew tired.
“Must stop that music!” he thought,
each time he hit the ground. “Must
win, for Mama’s sake!” he
thought, each time Zin bit or kicked
or scratched him.
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And by morning it really seemed as if Faran might win.
“Come on, Faran!” whispered a monkey and a duck.
“COME ON, FARAN!” roared his mother.
Then Zin cheated.
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He used a magic word.
“Zongballyboshbuckericket!” he said, and Faran fell to the
ground like spilled water. He could not move. Zin
danced around him, hands clasped above his head—
“I win! I win! I win!”—then laughed and laughed till he
had to sit down.
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“Oh, Mama!” sobbed Faran.
“I’m sorry! I did my best, but I don’t know no magic
words to knock this bully down!”
“Oh yes, you do!” called his mama. “Don’t you recall?
You found them in your fishing basket one day!”
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Then Faran remembered. The perfect magic
words. And he used them. “Hippopotami! HELP!”
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Just like magic, the first
hippopotamus Faran had caught
came and sat down—just where Zin was
sitting. I mean right on the spot where Zin
was sitting. I mean right on top of Zin. And
then his hippopotamus mate came and sat on
his lap. And that, it was generally agreed, was
when Faran won the fight. Zin was crushed.
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So nowadays Faran floats half-asleep in his canoe, fishing or playing a small gui-
tar. He has changed the strings, of course, so as to have no magic power over
the creatures of the six rivers. But he does have plenty of friends to
help him tend his maize and mend his roof and dance
with his mother. And what more can a boy ask than that?
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